


Swirls

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Domestic, M/M, Writer!Arthur, artist!Alfred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred sees the world in colours and lines. Arthur wonders sometimes how it is he sees him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swirls

The heavy scent of paint was nearly overwhelming as Arthur stepped into the studio, the only sound the distant heavy beat of Alfred’s music and his own voice singing along off key. A smile crossed his lips, a brief visit that was soon gone as he shut the door behind him with a solid click! and walked through the penthouse to where Alfred would certainly be.

He walked past the doorway, stopping where he stood to gaze at Alfred’s wide back, his shoulders nearly bare with the tank top that clung to his skin, and a splash of orange somehow made its way to the back of his neck. He was sweating slightly, a thin sheen to his tan skin, his body glowing with his usual radiance. Seeing him as he acted when he was alone was pleasant. Arthur always liked to know people thoroughly, and knowing Alfred when he was alone made him love him even more.

His music was loud, though slightly quieter than usual. Oftentimes the bass would bound through the floorboards and travel in vibrations up his legs to the point he swore his teeth were chattering. Today, however, it was low enough that Arthur could hear Alfred’s singing and whistling along, letting his eyes slide halfway shut as his lips quirked upwards and his eyes shimmered.

Alfred turned around, reaching for another bottle of green paint, and his eyes finally sought Arthur, who laughed as the other man jumped nearly a foot from his stool, a hand clutched to his heart. “What the fuck!”

Arthur snickered slightly, moving forward to place a hand against his cheek. Even more paint was smudged there. Alfred was a messy worker, but his end pieces were always beautiful so it didn’t really matter much, did it? Every artist has their own process. Arthur certainly had one for his writing—never mind that he was evading his deadline next week in favour of this little visit—so he could understand the mess and the scatter-brained clumsiness.

“Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to startle you. I didn’t wish to disturb you.”

Alfred pouted, his blue eyes looking slightly distraught. Alfred was a large, muscular man with a heart swelled with passion for his work—and for Arthur, he thought with a slight red tint across the bridge of his nose—and ruthless pride. Being frightened was good for neither his love nor drive, in which Arthur could sympathize.

After puffing out his cheeks and sucking them back in, resulting in a deflating noise, Alfred turned to gaze at his newest work. It was nearly done, a wonderful collection of swirls and colours, a pattern set against the canvas that Arthur couldn’t fathom coming up with in one’s mind. It was glorious how the colours set against one another could create something else entirely. Without the skill of an artist the painting would be only a blob of circles and lines, but as it had come from Alfred himself Arthur could see into a familiar face.

Noticing him thoughtfully admiring his work, Alfred perked up again, asking, “You like it? I stayed up all night working on it.”

Arthur took Alfred’s hand in his and leaned against him, his shorter shoulder meeting the tattoos along Alfred’s bicep. Alfred’s fingers were sticky with sweat and paint, but his touch was amiable. He was very, very warm.

“You continue to paint me. Haven’t you anything else to put your creative juices towards?”

Alfred blinked at him, but his grin never faltered. Despite his confused look, Arthur knew he understood. Arthur was quite self conscious at times, especially when it was his visage put against canvas, made immortal for all eyes to see. It wasn’t that he thought Alfred’s work was ugly, in fact his paintings always held the same brutally accurate likeness of Arthur’s thick eyebrows and ivy green eyes. It was more the knowledge that he was no longer just in Alfred’s head, that this image of him was able to be seen from others that made him uncomfortable. The idea that it wasn’t just him who could see into Alfred’s thoughts was so agonizing he couldn’t help but feel rather secondary.

“You’re the only thing worth putting my creative juices towards,” Alfred said simply, sitting back on his stool so Arthur wasn’t completely against him anymore. Instead he played with the hem of his shirt, his fingertips burning against the skin of his stomach beneath it.

Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. Always the romantic, Alfred was. He found himself rolling his eyes, though his blush wasn’t nonexistent. Words as flattering as those couldn’t go completely unpaid.

“You’re a cheesy fool, Al.”

Alfred shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s worked for me so far, hm?”

Arthur leaned down to kiss him. There was brown splattered across his lips, probably from when he painted in his eyebrows or the long, dark eyelashes framing his glittering eyes. He didn’t mind, for the bitter taste of paint was just another thing about Alfred that was undeniably perfect. He’d take every part of Alfred whole heartedly.


End file.
